HwtF Drabble Collection
by I-Mushi
Summary: Various drabbles written in the HwtF universe. Many are practicing pairings or otherwise following plot lines that deviate too much from the HwtF story. None of these are betaed and several inspired under the influence of wine, so fair warning.
1. This Wine is Terrible

Writer's Note: And indeed the wine was terrible when I wrote this. This is an experiment of Boromir/Maddie. A more explicit version can be found on Ao3 under . This can be a standalone Boromir/OC fic, but if you've read Home With the Fairies then you'll be familiar with Maddie already.

**This Wine is Terrible**

"This wine is terrible," I murmured under my breath, and Boromir squeezed my knee warningly. We were guests at Imrahil's table, and even though Boromir was no longer Steward of Gondor he was still Prince of Ithilien and couldn't afford to be rude.

"Hush, and drink your wine," he muttered, then deliberately turned away from me to engage so-and-so courtier next to him.

"Famous last words," I said under my breath in English, before grasping the wine glass by the stem and taking a long draught. I gave a second thought to what the alcohol content might be, but after years of drinking ale and mead like they were water it was going to take more than a glass of wine to get to me. Too bad there was no rum or tequila in Middle Earth. Someone needed to get on that.

That started a night of eating and drinking and much empty chatter with my neighbors. It was typical as far as court dinners went, but this time I had a particularly annoying neighbor who was driving me to pick up my wine glass more often than usual. She was the wife of a high-ranking soldier and complained bitterly about all his armor and weapons lying about. She also seemed to think sniffing in an obnoxious manner was attractive. Either that or the smell of the food was putting her off and she couldn't stop the reaction. By the third course I'd turned it into a drinking game: every time she made that horrible sniff I'd take a sip from my glass. It made the conversation infinitely more bearable.

Boromir, on the other hand, was deep into some discussion about river warfare and unable to save me from my neighbor or myself. When she'd started recounting stories about the jewelry she was wearing, I grew too bored for even the wine. My drink-emboldened fingers snuck under the edge of Boromir's tunic to touch skin instead, because my husband was always entertaining and I was having lascivious thoughts.

To his credit he didn't jump, but I saw his hand spasm around his own wine glass. When I glanced at mine it had been refilled, and I took another mouthful. I so did enjoy the perks of servants sometimes.

"So how do you find the suites in Ithilien, milady?" The annoying woman asked again, rekindling the conversation much to my annoyance. "I've heard their beauty is almost unmatched, especially the gardens. Why, my husband and I took a stroll through them once and it was just exquisite. Have you thought about a rose garden? After all the crest of Ithilien had roses on it, and as your husband is Prince of Ithilien it would be just fitting, now wouldn't it?"

Most of what she said was lost to me after she mentioned something about a husband. I was remembering a night on the way here with _my_ husband that was most definitely not appropriate for the dinner table, but I heard something about roses and princes. When she paused long enough for an answer, I said the first somewhat reasonable thing I could think of: "Oh the gardens are just _royal_, and rose petals are so romantic," I said, giggling into my wine glass as I took another long sip. I wasn't sure what I was saying but who cares? My hand on Boromir's side was caressing the curve of his hip, and I was far more focused on that than the conversation. How many glasses was I on? Oh wait, I only had one wine glass, so that should count as only one drink.

Suddenly Boromir's broad hand was wrapped around my own and helping put the glass on the table. My other hand slipped out of his shirt in surprise and I pouted at him. "Have some of the potatoes, the gravy is delicious," he told me pointedly, with his serious face on, and I mimicked it but added my pout.

"Oh I'm quite full, my prince. I was telling Lady…" I wavered, having no idea her name and then shrugged, "…all about the gardens." I turned back to her deliberately, but I think only Boromir knew I was mocking her. "The big pink flowers should be in bloom soon. Some of Erynion's kin planted them. Can't remember their names at all, but you know Elvish names." I said that last bit in a conspiratorial whisper, and the lady look baffled by the turn of the conversation. Boromir looked like he wanted to roll his eyes.

He was quick to stop me when I lifted the wine glass again though, and this time I pulled his hand down under the table and set it on my thigh. If he was going to deny me my drink he was going to have to entertain me some other way. His hand flexed but didn't otherwise move, and I petted over his fingers absently, pleased when he caught mine in his grasp and held them. Boromir was rarely verbally affectionate but it was all in his actions.

Plus, I still had my left hand free, as I stole a drink from the wine glass when he looked away.

"You know," I turned to him after completely ignoring what else the woman had to say for a couple more minutes, the lanterns in the room spreading a warm flush across my skin. Or was that the wine? Lovely stuff really. "If you are the Prince of Ithilien does that make me a princess? I do believe I've now lived a fairy tale." This was most satisfying to my drunk mind. "I suppose Saruman can be the evil witch, and stopping Mordor is kind of like slaying a dragon." The woman next to me's painted-on eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Boromir also looked over confused, but more exasperated really. "I did get to travel with dwarves, though was it seven?" I pondered this while Boromir made some excuses to our host. ("Bofur would be Happy I suppose, but Nori? Gimli could be Grumpy…") I don't know what he said, but I made sure to throw in a compliment about the apple tarts, though my comment about the lack of poison in the apple was swallowed by Boromir's arm when he drew me away.

"You are lucky the dinner was winding down," he said gruffly, but he didn't sound all that annoyed. My hand had crept up the back of his shirt again and was running over the small of his back. He didn't know it, but he had a dimple on one side that I could never stop kissing whenever I saw it. In fact, that sounded like a brilliant idea.

"What are you doing?" He asked in frustration, but it was a rhetorical question. When I stumbled but refused to stop lifting his shirt he leaned down and picked me up bridal style.

"Now this really is a fairy tale!" I exclaimed, but he rolled his eyes.

"In what Elvish tale is a woman so drunk she accosts her husband in the corridor and rambles about things no one but her understands?"

There wasn't a word in Westron for "fairy", but the closest thing was "Elf". I hadn't quite realized I'd translated it that way until now. I put my arms around Boromir's neck and magnanimously offered to clear this up.

"No, no, not Elvish, silly. Fairy," I pronounced in English, but Boromir didn't seem to be paying me much mind. Luckily there were no servants around as he juggled me to open the door. I pressed a kiss to his cheek and muttered fairy, which caused him to stumble a little, or maybe that was the other groping hand. "Are we crossing the threshold?" I asked suddenly, very much distracted from my talk of fairy tales. "You know, in my home this is a tradition between newlyweds."

This time he frowned, and I cupped his cheek so he wouldn't look so sad. Boromir was certainly grim, but that made every smile of his more worth it. "It's not an important tradition," I said, somehow guessing the reason for his look despite the room spinning a little. His grey eyes were the only things that weren't. "If you are upset though, we can still pretend it's the wedding night." I tried to wiggle my eyebrows, but I don't think it worked if his incredulous look was anything to go by.

"You are a terribly forward drunk."

"I think the wine got a lot better as the night went on." He lowered me slowly to the bed, but I locked my arms around his neck so he couldn't stand up straight, and continued on conversationally. "Did you have some? You know, I believe this is a water bed."

In the privacy of our guest rooms he looked more relaxed than before, and I drunkenly hoped more interested in my advances. I don't remember when, but he must have loosened the top of his tunic because I could see the dip of his collarbone and the edge of a bruise I had left there on that night by the campfire. It made my mouth water.

"I do not know what a water bed is," he said slowly, putting both hands on the bed so we were eye level. I felt a bit like prey in a lion's eyes, except this was a good feeling. A very good one. "But I am sure you have drunk far too much wine."

"Nonsense," I said, pulling him down and pressing my lips to the corner of his mouth. They quirked up every time I did this, and I grinned at him. "I was definitely about this drunk at our wedding. All that Elvish wine."

Boromir's hands went to my hips, and I was suddenly lifted and dropped several feet further on the bed than I was before. It was a bit disorienting, but he was now hands and knees on the bed so I got over the confusion quickly. That look on his face was enough to make me wet.

"Did you eat _anything_ at dinner?" He asked wryly, but his hands were going for the lacings on my dress so I didn't mind the question. I would have helped, but when I clumsily tried to he batted my hands away.

"Of course I did sweet husband." I carded my hands through his soft hair instead, scratching at his scalp and loving the moan that always pulled from him. Sometimes in the early morning I would do this, and he would wake with the most beautiful sleepy smile on his face. I vowed to do it more often as I thought of it. "But Lady what's-her-face would not stop complaining. There's only so much I can take of that, and you were just sitting there."

"What's-her-face?" He asked in confusion at my terrible translation, and I ignored his question in favor of hooking a leg behind his knee and pulling him down into a kiss.

I was definitely clumsier than normal but it didn't matter much because it was a hot and wet and perfect. Boromir was a focused kisser, full of intention and tightly wound passion. His kisses always made me feel like I was the center of his world, and it sent a frission of heat and love through me. He licked into my mouth and tangled with my tongue, and all I could register was the feel of him pressed against me and the feel of his muscles in my hands as I tried to hold on for the assault.

And it was an assault. Boromir was a man of war, and he never did anything by halves. No, every time we were together like this I remembered that beyond a brave, loyal, stalwart man who'd won me over with his silly gifts for Thunor and he forthright manner, he was also an awesome lay.

When we were sated—at least for now—I buried my face against his chest and just took in the safety and warmth that came with being in his arms. And when I realized his nipple was within reach I couldn't deny the automatic urge to lick it. His hand in my hair jumped, and he let out a weak chuckle. "Give me a moment, beloved."

"Mm," I murmured distractedly. A thin scar from an arrow wound was on the closest shoulder, and I knew that mark well. He'd gotten it years ago in a clearing in Amon Hen. I traced the outline with my tongue, feeling lethargic but still awake enough for this.

"Sleep," he murmured, the hand in my hair pulling me away so he could turn on his side. His lips grazed my cheek, and I smiled at the affection of the action. "There is plenty of time for that later if my lady desires."

He helped me roll over so we were spooning, and gently slid my hair over one shoulder so he had free access to my neck. I arched back when I felt his lips on the edge of my shoulder and throat. "If you keep doing that, later may mean now," I told him only half-jokingly. I wasn't ready for another round yet, but I wasn't opposed if he wanted to warm me up.

Boromir laughed though, and met my upturned lips for one more lingering kiss, filled with love and appreciation. After all the waiting, and enduring separation and cultural barriers, we'd built something deeper than either of us believed. And now I didn't know how I'd ever gone without.

I drifted off to sleep then, one hand resting on his, dreaming of horses and wine and making love by those big, pink Elvish flowers.


	2. Should Have Named Her Fall

Writer's Note: Partially out of laziness and also because I'm uncertain about the background of Elfwine's name, I opted to simply assume Éomer named his son and not Lothiriel, even as I utterly erased her from the picture. Also, all Rohirric here is actually just Old English, as very few Rohirric words are known. I know nothing about Old English, so please overlook my egregious mistakes.

There is also an explicit version of this on Archive of our Own. You can find it under my username there, I(underscore)Mushi.

**Should Have Named Her "Fall"**

"Thunor, stop it!" I snapped for the third time, but the damn horse didn't listen to me anymore than he had since I first met him. Éomer snorted into his fist. He found my relationship with Thunor to be an endless source of amusement. "You leave the pony alone."

Sometimes I thought Thunor was the most arrogant and unfriendly horse you could meet. And then he was like a puppy with Legolas and best buddies with Éomer's Firefoot. But the moment you put him with any horse that was even a hair shorter than him or not a Mearas and he turned into a bully. Like right now, as he whacked the other horse with his tail harder than I'm sure was ever strictly necessary.

"Ought-um is tough," Éomer insisted, while also mangling the name I'd given the pony.

"_Autumn_," I repeated, trying not to sound like I hadn't been correcting him for the last two days. I didn't really have a leg to stand on though, because Éomer was still correcting my pronunciation of Rohirric at every turn even after two years of living in Meduseld. Therefore at the first chance I got to name something I'd jumped on something English, only to find that Éomer's English sucked as much as my Elvish. That is, he spoke almost none and garbled what he did.

At least our son's name wasn't terribly difficult to pronounce. I'd been worried with some of the ones Éomer and Éowyn had pitched, but even I knew a "foreign" name like mine wouldn't really be appropriate for a future king of Rohan. Elfwine, our son, was just now two-and-a-half years old, and Autumn was to be his first pony for him to learn to ride alone on.

The little boy was almost dancing in place beside me, as Éomer checked the saddle and reins again. While it made me nervous to put my son on a horse already (Éomer still found it both bizarre and funny that I hadn't learned to ride until I was almost twenty-five), I knew Éomer was being very careful. He never checked the tack as much as this, shifting the saddle just a little bit more for the third time.

"Mama, will I get to ride Thunor after Autumn?" Elfwine shared his hair and eyes with his father, but I was rather pleased that he definitely had my nose that I'd inherited from my grandmother. He looked up at me now, wiggling in place with excitement.

"Not until you're bigger. Thunor's almost too big for me."

Éomer's smacked his hands together to get rid of the dust as he came over. "Yes. Your mother still needs help getting on his back."

I rolled my eyes but didn't dignify that with a response. The one time in the last two years I'd stumbled my mount on Thunor was of course in front of him. And a year later, Éomer still couldn't resist the urge to mention it.

"Now let's get you up on _Autumn_," Éomer said, stretching the vowels longer as he carefully pronounced it. He winked at me when my lips twitched.

Elfwine was plenty familiar with horses—this was Rohan after all—so he was careful with Autumn, patting her nose gently and making sure Éomer had done alright with the bit and reins. The pony had been a surprise for him, and when he'd met her outside Meduseld his young voice hit octaves that made Éomer wince.

Autumn wasn't a birthday present, but more of a right-of-passage gift. Unsurprisingly, many of Rohan's traditions were rooted in horse culture, and one of them was a child's first ride alone on a horse. When Éomer had first brought it up I'd been rather terrified of the idea of my tiny child sitting on a horse by himself. Éomer found my maternal worry endearing but also silly. Only a horse-lord could say there was nothing to fear from sticking his two-year-old child on a horse.

Thunor, who I had ridden out on, whacked me with his tail since he'd been deprived of Autumn—Éomer had shoved him away like he was a stubborn cow. (Predictably, Éomer and Thunor didn't always get along.) Firefoot loitered nearby, staring sleepily out at the plains. Both of them were getting old by horse years. I patted Thunor absently, watching Éomer try to play stern father while hiding his grin.

Once Elfwine was situated safely, Éomer took the lead rope and slowly worked Autumn in circles so the little boy could get accustomed to the feel of the horse alone. Seeing my son going round and round and expecting a wave and smile every time he passed me, made me remember carousels and my parents hanging on the fence waving to me. I couldn't help thinking of my parents and what they would think of Elfwine. He didn't have grandparents, since Éomer's were also gone, but Éowyn and Faramir spoiled him rotten when they'd visited not long after his first birthday. He hadn't met Boromir or Erynion yet, but Aragorn had mentioned offhand once about the Elves' fascination with children, seeing as they had so few of their own. It put a smile on my face, imagining Erynion with Elfwine. Would Elfwine demand to be carried, or shown his bow? Would he want an Elvish song? And more importantly, I snickered to myself, how far would stiff-necked Erynion bend over backwards for a little boy?

"Alright, good. You've got the reins now," Éomer instructed, checking Elfwine's hands before unsnapping the lead. He stayed right by the pony's side as Elfwine slowly walked the pony on his own, then experimented with more of a trot.

The sun was warm on this grassy spot outside Edoras, the tall stalks scratchy against my ankles. Elfwine looked utterly thrilled, glowing with excitement. "Look Mama, look!" he would call occasionally, as I tried not to look like I was drifting off in the lazy heat of Rohan's summer. I watched as Elfwine took Autumn at a slow trot in a circle grinning madly at me. Éomer's eyes jumped to mine, and his whole face was lit up with joy and pride, a look almost as strong as they day the midwife put the babe in his arms.

"I want to ride back to Meduseld!" Elfwine declared, but Éomer shot that one down. It was one thing to do circles on a flat plain, another to navigate Edoras' streets.

Éomer mounted up on Firefoot gracefully, and the two trotted around the area for a while more. I thought about getting on Thunor and joining them, but thought twice when I imagined Thunor being that close to Autumn again. Eventually Elfwine began to tire, and with gentle clicking noises he mimicked from his father, our son slowed the pony to a stop. It took some coaxing to get Elfwine off Autumn, who he now completely adored and insisted on holding the lead rein for on the way home. When Éomer had him in his arms, he smacked a kiss to the side of Elfwine's head, holding him almost triumphantly.

"Our son is a rider! As though he were born on a horse." Elfwine giggled as Éomer's whiskers rubbed his cheek, and I laughed as I came over to congratulate them both.

"He most certainly was not, but you already look a horse-lord." Elfwine accepted kisses from us both, grin splitting his face, and I made sure to get Éomer with a kiss too. If only I had a camera, a tiny part of me whispered.

Éomer whistled over Thunor and even cheekily offered to give me a boost up. If he hadn't been holding Elfwine I might have kicked him as I got in the saddle, but I had to settle for a jab about it being Boromir's job instead.

"Do you want to ride with _modor_ or me?" Éomer asked Elfwine, who tugged on Autumn's lead. The moment the pony got close enough, Thunor's tail swung out and smacked her, and I cuffed Thunor on the hindquarters.

"Firefoot," Elfwine decided, probably thanks to Thunor being a brat.

When we got back to Meduseld, Éomer made sure Elfwine helped with removing Autumn's tack (or rather, folding the saddle blanket since he couldn't reach much else). Once everything was put away and I made sure Thunor wasn't next to Autumn so he could further bother the pony, we all headed back to our quarters. Elfwine ran up the steps and burst inside so he could tell Fromgast, his tutor, all about riding Autumn. Éomer accepted handshakes from the men outside, and I followed Elfwine in, only thinking about how lovely a bath my feel.

When I got back to our rooms I started to take the wretched pins and clips out of my hair. Tonight would be a family dinner as a small celebration to complete the day, so there wasn't any need for formality. I could also ditch the riding dress, which had a skirt cut specifically for riding astride, but was mostly a pain when you weren't on a horse.

"I was hoping I might get to do that," a voice said behind him, sounding smug. I turned my head to see my husband leaning on the doorjamb, one hand still raised with a pin I'd just pulled free.

"You know perfectly well there are a dozen more." I gave him an inviting smile, and Éomer pushed off the jamb to take me up on my offer.

"Our son did well today," he said softly as hair came loose from the fancy twist and I could relax a little more.

"Yes, he's a natural."

"If only I'd been able to see your first time on a horse." I snorted, a very unladylike noise. Éomer huffed a laugh over the shell of my ear, pulling the last pin out. "Or rather, your first time on Thunor."

"Why are we still talking about horses?" I asked, turning around. Éomer's husky tone was putting a lot of others things to mind.

His hands slipped around my waist, pulling me up onto my tiptoes so he could kiss all the thoughts from me. He smelled of hay and grass and the winds of the plains, and he tasted the like the freedom the horses gave us.

As we pulled apart, his hands slid up my back to the ties of the dress, and he laughed when my hair got in the way of the ties. "Turn around, _leof_, so I can free you from this. One day it might be simpler."

"You would love zippers," I snickered as I turned around and pulled my hair aside.

"Zippers?" he inquired as the ties loosened and the front of the dress dipped forward. Before I could turn he pulled me back against him and began to press open-mouthed kisses to my shoulder as the dress slid down my arms.

I shook my head, mostly because I didn't want to think anymore. Éomer was more coherent though, and felt like teasing. "Will you not at least tell me what 'aught-tum' means?"

"No," I said, breathier than I meant to. "You'll just call her by the Rohirric word."

He pressed a denial in Rohirrim to my throat, but I understood enough by now to know what he said. "Kisses won't get you anywhere, my _cyning_," I warned him, calling him king in Rohirric because it tended to distract him in bed.

Unfortunately, what was more distracting was the knock on the door. When it came a second time, Éomer groaned aloud and took a step back, his hair and clothes disheveled. I rather wanted to grab him by the loose shirt and kiss him hard to add to the debauchery, but it was too late for that.

I pulled my dress up and slipped off to the side where no one could see me from the doorway, while Éomer had a quick conversation in Rohirric with a guard. "There are several farmers who wish to see me," he explained swiftly as he tucked in the shirt I'd pulled loose and went hunting for a suitable cloak. "It shouldn't take long."

"I understand," I told him, because I hadn't married the king of Rohan without knowing what that would mean. I tried to sort out his hair while he buttoned up the over shirt and pulled on the cloak. Once it didn't look quite like my hands had been running through it moments before, he cupped my face and pulled me up for a searing kiss. "You'll mess up your hair!" I complained when he pulled back, but he had a boyish smile on his face that couldn't be touched.

"And if all the men in Rohan know that I lay with my wife what then? Is not our son proof enough?"

"That's not the point," I argued. "You shouldn't go to your court looking a mess."

If Éomer hadn't grown a little more serious after the war and his duties as king, he might have rolled his eyes at me. As it were, he still chuckled a bit at my worry. "Today is a day to celebrate for our family. If my wife did not kiss me I'd be more concerned!" He kissed me hard again, nearly knocking the loosened dress off my shoulders with his passion, eyes glittering as he pulled back. "Later," he promised. His thumb rubbed against my cheek for a moment, eyes bright, before he finally left to see to his people.

I had to hastily redress when Fromgast knocked on the door moments later with a certain dimpled boy with those same bright eyes and a face smeared in apple pie. Even as I made Elfwine turn around and apologize to the cook, I couldn't help running my fingers through his thick hair, just the same as his father's.

"If he is half as good as his father, then he will be a great king," the tutor said to me, and I knew the same feeling that had overwhelmed Éomer out in the field: pride for my son, the boy I had birthed and raised—even if he snuck tastes of his dessert before dinner.

"Did you know," Fromgast continued, "that they are calling the King, Éomer Éadig, meaning 'the Blessed'? Already coffers are fuller than they have been in years, and many come from afar to trade with the horse lords again."

"Wait, they call him what?" I repeated, not hearing anything about food and trade.

"Éomer Éadig."

"Say it more slowly," I said, already wondering how long it was going to take Éomer to find out I couldn't say it and what it was going to take to get him to forget.

* * *

"Our son is a poor actor," Éomer said conversationally from where he laid on the bed, watching me brush my hair. The comb was inlaid with gold in the shape of a horse's head, a courting gift from him. I resolutely focused on brushing my hair and not his bare chest and shoulders. He had a warrior's body, and even after two years it could be surprisingly distracting.

"I told him to act surprised when he saw the pie."

"Did you?" He sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

"He was a little dramatic." It was an understatement, but I had been more concerned with making sure Elfwine knew he'd done wrong than whether the surprise was spoiled.

I set the comb down and wandered over to the bed, eyes lingering on the muscles that corded his chest and arms. When I slid into bed and curled into his side he pressed a kiss to my hair, running his fingers through the long strands. "I also heard," he murmured softly, "they call me 'the Blessed' in Rohirric."

"I should say _I_ am the blessed with such a husband," I joked. I'd had a feeling Fromgast would let it slip that I bungled his title.

"Madeline Éa…" he trailed off expectantly, waiting for me to finish the damn word in Rohirric. I was going to practice saying it before he ever heard it from me. Instead I slid my hand across his flat abs, scratching my nails how he liked right across the sensitive ribs. He caught my hand before I could do anything more though, not going along with my unsubtle hints.

"Madeline the Blessed," I said in English stubbornly, refusing to use even the Westron. Two could play this game.

"Queen Madeline, wife of King Éomer Éa…" he paused, but when I didn't finish it he shrugged. "…Queen of Rohan, Lady of the Secret Fire, friend of Elves, and speaker of English, Westron, and… _some_ Rohirric."

This time I pinched him, once for the Lady of Secret Fire jab—because really, they still called me that sometimes in Minas Tirith, and Erynion thought it absolutely hilarious—and once for "_some_ Rohirric".

"King Éomer of Rohan, father of Elfwine, warrior of the War of the Ring, and man who speaks _no _English. Elfwine speaks more than you do." I'd made sure our son spoke a little, if only to preserve some of my previous life. The word _modor_ for mother also sounded so grim to my ears.

Éomer pouted, like he ever thought that would win him favors. I'd become immune after the many, many times Elfwine had tried that. "Elfwine has no one to speak your English with except you."

"And you, if you could say anything at all." I didn't try to teach Éomer much though, mostly because it he had more important things to think about, and because if I had to hear him mangle "autumn" one more time I'd probably bruise something important.

"Elfwine should have a companion to speak it with. At least to share secrets," Éomer argued though I was only half listening. His hand was teasing the end of the nightgown, like he had better ideas of what to be doing.

"You want me to teach someone English?"

"I was thinking—" he murmured, stubble rubbing against my temple a little as he pulled me more flush to him and his hand cupped the back of my leg—"perhaps a brother or sister."

"You'll need to really work on your English," I teased, and I could feel his smile against my skin. I felt an impish one of my own cross my face. "How about a lesson, then? This is an important English one for us: _making love_."

"Isn't that the same word as…?"

"Yes," I nodded, trying to look seriously and failing miserably as I sat up to better face my husband, unable to stop from reaching out to caress his chest. I'd taught him "I love you" in English, one of the few phrases he'd really wanted to learn. "It literally means _machian lufu_," I translated, and he huffed a laugh, fingers tugging on the end of the nightgown now. He knew where this was going.

"I like that," he replied. "You always say that repetition is key—" I leaned forward to kiss him before he could finish, no longer interested in anything outside of this bed. But we did repeat the words. Or rather, the meaning, all night long.


	3. A Smile Worth a Thousand Words

Writer's Note: A lot of HwtF fans were hoping to see more Erynion and asked about an Elf/Human relationship with him and Maddie. In my attempt at realism Elf/Human pairings were a strict no-no, but in an alternate universe… well, it was interesting to try. It's hard to capture the mystery and agelessness of the Elves, but I gave it a shot.

**A Smile Worth a Thousand Words**

An Elves' talan was generally a spartan place by human standards, and certainly by the ones I had lived by in my home world. Erynion kept only clothes, weapons, and travel packs in his talan, and didn't spend much time there. As a human though, I brought a host of differences with me into this relationship, not the least of which was a perchance for knick-knacks and a desire for something a little cozier. Even years after moving in it seemed to alternately amuse and catch Erynion off guard.

"It was a gift from Bofur, the dwarf. Remember my wooden one? He made another when we came to visit."

Erynion picked up the metal horse to examine its craftsmanship, his thin lips curling downward slightly at the ends. I rolled my eyes at his typical expression when it came to anything Dwarvish. Even as we'd stood in the splendor of Erebor he'd managed to maintain a certain veiled hostility. I couldn't even pretend to understand the Elves' relationship with Dwarves, but I refused to be dragged into it one way or another.

"Why display it here?"

"Because it's beautiful and holds memories." The concept of knick-knacks seemed to go over the heads of most Elves. I didn't have many odds and ends, but after growing up in a cluttered house and then always traveling Middle Earth I relished a place to put all the little things I'd collected. It made me feel a lot more settled having mementos like this out, even as I continued to drag Erynion around the world. In fact, we'd only returned two days ago from visiting Erebor and Eryn Lasgalen (Erynion preferred the Elvish name, and "Mirkwood" _was_ awfully dour).

"Can you not recall him without looking at it?"

"That's not the point," I groused, but even as I turned away I saw Erynion put the model horse back down on the table gently. The first time I'd met him—and really, the second and third times too—Erynion had been a taciturn but frustrating presence. But as the aftermath of the War of the Ring began to hit us all, and I began to long to leave Minas Tirith and see new sites again, it was amazingly Erynion who understood better than anyone. He had gone with me when I left with Legolas and Gimli to Fangorn Forest the first time, and we'd stuck together ever since.

"Come, Thunor is below."

We climbed down the ladder of the talan and on to the soft carpet of the forest. Erynion didn't live in Caras Galadhon but an outlying spoke of the city. It was much quieter (not that any Elven city was particularly loud) and more private, which I greatly appreciated given the oddity of my living here to begin with. Elvish-human relationships were the height of rarity, and while I couldn't say they were frowned upon exactly it was definitely peculiar. Elves were generally non-judgmental of each other, but then again they weren't as diverse as humans. Still, I sensed that Erynion's choice did make waves in the community. It was all in the subtle looks of consternation and the berth I was given. I didn't know how Erynion managed to navigate it, but more than once I'd had reservations that he had quickly put to rest. If he could weather it, so could I.

Standing by a tree were the two horses, Thunor and Eirien. Eirien was Erynion's, the name meaning "daisy". Truthfully, I hadn't known what her name meant for the first year and a half I spent with Erynion because I didn't understand the Westron translation. It wasn't until we actually rode by a small patch of daisies in northern Gondor and Erynion explained that I understood. He'd rather liked the English word for them.

Eirien was a gentle mare, more suited for Sunday rides than distance traveling, but she was also an Elvish horse and served Erynion well. I'd always imagined Erynion having a snappy horse or at least a male one, more along the lines of Thunor really. However, her line of horses when back to Erynion's father, so his family had always ridden one of them.

In Erynion's hand there appeared a crabapple, which Thunor immediately trotted over to snatch up before I could knock it out of the Elf's hand. Eirien just flicked an ear, not interested in Thunor's antics. "Oh, you're spoiling him!"

Erynion just gave me that half-smile of his that said he knew well why it annoyed me and that he'd keep doing it just for that. I played up my grievance because stopping Erynion from his amusement was as hard as pulling a hobbit from his food. "You might as well ride him since we all know he loves you best."

The annoying elf stroked Thunor's forehead where a small patch of white rested, but then he moved away from the horse and over to me. He brushed his knuckles against my cheek in an affectionate gesture as understated and meaningful as befitted an Elf. "I can only buy his love for a short while, but you have earned it forever."

I couldn't help smiling, and his lips twitched up too, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.

* * *

We rode a fair distance that day as an easy pace to a spot Erynion wanted to show me. We followed a tributary river to the Anduin some ways, at points almost a brook and at others a busy, babbling creek. Then we broke away from the river and deeper into the forest until it was easy to forget there was anything in the world other than the silver trees.

The dappled Eirien was a good friend of Thunor's—good enough I was already thinking up names for a foul come next spring—and she looked especially beautiful under the slanting rays of sun. Erynion too looked good, as Elves generally did, with all the whipcord strength of his people in those supple hands, his skin flawless and glowing slightly in the sun, like he was made of light and greenery and wind and not dirt and flesh like me. It truly baffled me sometimes that I had some claim to an Elf.

He looked over his shoulder at me, blue eyes bright and always a bit amused, and I followed my first impulse to kick Thunor's sides and overtake Erynion with a burst of speed.

Elvish horses are fast, and obviously the riders are a lot more skilled at navigating than I am, but it hardly mattered where we were going or who was winning, because as the wind blew back my hair and Thunor stretched out his neck to gallop, I felt I could taste the sunshine as much as I could see it. The wood became just a blur of silver and green spotted with gold.

When Erynion pulled up alongside me after some minutes, I laughingly twisted Thunor to the side, dashing off in another direction and giggling into the destrier's dark mane. It didn't take more than a minute though for the elf to catch up, and I was pleased to see a smile crossing his features.

By some unspoken agreement we slowed to a trot and then gently a walk, and then it was my turn to reach out and touch his lips with a fingertip. "You really ought to smile more."

"As you do, whenever a pretty thing catches your eye?" I would have once thought his words derisive or at the very least dismissive, but I knew Erynion better now. He was old. Older than I could really understand, though I'm glad to say he never put a number to it. In all his years he'd seen the most beautiful things and the most ugly, witnessed countless civilizations destroyed and rebuilt, and watched both endless and short-lived loves. When you have thousands of years to see the ups and downs of life, it all becomes one rolling line; the hills of emotions stop affecting you so much. That was why he didn't smile as often, though he said he felt as strongly as ever—it just took more to make him show it.

But I was young, as inconceivably young to him as he was old to me. He could hardly remember a time when the world had been so fascinating, everything so fresh and new, still with wonder always on the horizon. I liked to think I gave some of that youth back to him, as much as he gave me the wisdom my short lifespan might leave me without. It was why I insisted on always doing something; even if it was only getting him to teach me how to thoroughly fail at archery (I was better with a sword, though carrying both sword and shield was incredibly wearisome) or to visit some far-off place. It was also why he insisted on stopping and standing sometimes just to soak it in.

"There are smiles and then there are smiles," I told him, mostly to see his eyebrow quirk like it did when I said something a little odd, usually when a translation didn't go right. "I smile when I see a huge tree, because it has stood for a thousand years and ever grows, so tall and wide, with shade for lengths and lengths. Then there is a smile for when you sing, because it is precious and special, and it makes my heart… grow big."

I'd learned a lot of poetry from the Elves, because there was really no other way to describe them. Sure, it was often a challenge, but the hidden expression in Erynion's face was well worth the effort. He caught my hand in his before I could pull it away, shifting his mare closer. He pressed a kiss against the back of my hand that said a hundred things no Elvish poetry could match, that no long nights in each others' arms or love letters could hope to say. That was the way the Elves loved: wholly, deeply, promises made in heart and action and sometimes song, because you didn't need lust and flowers to understand it.

It had taken me a long time to appreciate that, twice as long as it had taken me to realize Erynion's feelings, because Elvish courting is subtle, and there were no convenient rules about movies and dinner or announcements and roses, and especially not between a Human and an Elf. (So… a very long time. Luckily, Erynion seemed to realize it eventually and managed to be a bit more direct.)

I rode the rest of the way remembering the last time I'd heard Erynion sing. It had been on the way back to Lothlórien from the Lonely Mountain after we'd passed through Eryn Lasgalen and started the same southward road Erynion and I had once walked from Rivendell. We'd found a grassy hillock, peaceful and safe, and Erynion had softly sung me stories of the stars, tracing their shapes in the sky until I'd fallen asleep.

I didn't quite realize I was humming one of the songs until Erynion's lilting voice joined me, only singing the melody without words. It carried me through the silver woods of Lothlórien like in a dream, full of soft edges and pleasant thoughts, untainted. He continued to hum it as he dismounted and helped me down, and I flowed into his arms so I could hear the very music rising from his heart. He pressed the words of the stars and their names in Elvish to my hair, and we swayed to their joys and sorrows, and the eternal light they shared with the world. We stayed pressed together from toes to head, until finally Erynion's voice slipped away like summer wind, and the tears that I hadn't even realized I was crying started to dry.

I pressed a kiss to his jaw, my face still a little wet, and he cupped it in both hands to kiss me fully, as heartfelt as the music. I had to laugh a little brokenly as we pulled apart. "You always make me cry."

"If you laugh you could not hear it, so you cry." I muffled a snort as I wiped my face of the last shreds of tears, because that was so typically Erynion. No apology and no attempt to comfort when there wasn't really pain. "Come, I would show you what I brought you here to see."

He put his hand between my shoulder blades as though to guide, but it was more than that. It wasn't an apology, just a promise of support when he drove me to such emotion. In a relationship with an elf, that was often a very real risk.

"I wonder," I said softly, as I crunched through the undergrowth and Erynion was silent, "if I could overwhelm you with emotion. I know Elves cry too when they hear the most beautiful of music." At the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen, the Evenstar had sung, reducing humans to blubbering messes and even the most elegant of Elves into masks of both misery and joy.

We took several more steps in silence before Erynion's hand brushed the top of my head. "Your hair is wet," he said, before moving ahead and up the short hill we were hiking towards.

I patted the top of my head, surprised indeed to find he was right: where his cheek had rested as we embraced was indeed a little wet.

I ran up behind him and no words were said, because the message was perfectly clear—as clear as the view from the hilltop of the forest and valleys and far off mountains to the west of the Golden Wood. It was breathtaking and awe-inspiring, and I found myself clutching Erynion's hand as much to share that message back to him as to hold me steady. He didn't let go, even as he moved behind me to whisper in my ear.

"Let your mind quiet and your eyes wander slowly. See the peaks of the mountains, jagged and sharp, and vividly white. Imagine the cold at the heights turning your lips blue, watching the eagles that soar to their Eyrie. There's snow that will lick your knees, and the higher you track the closer the clouds will come…"

Erynion murmured his timeless wisdom and patience to me, painting the scene before me into a vibrant, living landscape where once it might have only been a picture. Indeed, nothing could be realer than us here: Elf and human, hands clasped together as we tried to grasp the enormity of the world from only this pinprick. By the time my eyes had traversed the very tops of the Misty Mountains, across the forest at the foothills and the plains at its feet, then down to the earth under mine, I felt tired and wobbly, shaken enough that I had to sit and let it pass. Erynion's lips brushed my cheek and he sat beside me as steady as the mountains, patient to the end.

When I finally felt sufficiently recovered and no longer overwhelmed by the vastness of the world and my tiny place in it, I turned to Erynion and brushed a soft kiss to his lips as a thank you.

"I want to travel again."

He laughed softly, smiling for the second time that day, but softer than before. "Where do you want to go?"

"You have shown me mountains and forests and grasslands," I said, indicating the vista before us that encompassed a corner of them all. "But you haven't shown me oceans or rivers or valleys. Nor ruins or village or town."

Erynion just looked at me, with that same smile hovering about his mouth, and I knew he was promising me I would see those things with him, that he would sing me the stories of the stars and let me collect and display my little gifts and souvenirs, so long as I would stay with him and love him as much as he dared to love me.

And I smiled back that one smile that meant "of course" and "I love you" and a thousand other endearments that I saved only for the most precious things to me in the world.


	4. A Study in Frustration: Erynion (Part 1)

Writer's Note: Introducing a lot snarkier Maddie. I'm not sure how it happened, but Noree and I were talking and somehow hit on the idea of an alternate-alternate universe where Erynion goes with Maddie to Gondor. This is mostly the highlights of their adventure, which is why things ended up a lot more bizarre than I ever intended. I also messed with the timeline, so Gandalf appears in Minas Tirith a lot earlier than usual, because whatever, alternate-alternate universe.

**A Study in Frustration: Erynion (Part One)**

The poor man looked completely flabbergasted as he drew his horse to a stop, his men just a couple steps behind him. They were soldiers obviously, with the shape of a horse on their shields and armor that I didn't recognize. All eyes were on Erynion though, who's expression hadn't changed at all. He calmly watched the men approach like they were a flock of birds and not soldiers with weapons.

"What is an Elf and a lady doing in such lands?" the closest one asked, but his gaze wavered between the two of us, like he didn't know quite who to address. I thought it was perfectly obvious since Erynion radiated that kind of unwavering Elven confidence that managed to _not _come off as arrogant at the same time. Then again, I suppose we were both two odd ducks at the moment.

Erynion didn't answer, instead just solemnly studying the men who had gathered around, most still on their horses, while they in turn goggled at him. I was left to stutter through a reply. "We go to Gondor."

The man who'd spoken turned to me, but the next words out of his mouth were far too complicated for my meager Westron. I looked at Erynion, whose mouth I swear twitched for a just a moment.

And of course the elf stayed dead silent.

"What? Sorry?"

The man repeated it, and I still had no idea what he was saying. I looked at Erynion again, but he just stood there to let me flounder my way through this. If we didn't have an audience I would have shot more than a scathing look at Erynion.

"I speak little Westron," I tried to explain, but the guy just ignored that and said something more that was perfectly incomprehensible to me. Couldn't he at least slow down? "This is Erynion. Erynion is Elf. He speaks Westron," I said in stilted words, and thankfully that shifted what little attention was on me back to him.

The elf finally—finally!—deigned to engage the man in conversation, though brief because Erynion was as loquacious as a rock, and then finally the man turned back to me and offered me a short bow. "My lady, my name is Fastred. We have a horse available, and you are welcome to meet with our captain and share safe passage south to Edoras if you would like."

I stared at the Rohirrim, confused by what he said. Something about a horse. "Horse?" I looked back at Erynion, but whoever had brought a saddled horse nearby had completely distracted him. Erynion had barely moved and he was already getting an affectionate nuzzle out of the animal. The moment Erynion started stroking its neck I swear if it were possible that horse would have been purring. While interesting for our audience, it was also monumentally unhelpful. "Erynion."

The damn elf glanced at me then indicated the horse. "Horse," I supplied as dryly as possible. Were we being given it? Did we have to trade for it? Would we both be able to ride it? I tried to put all these questions I didn't know how to say into that one word, but Erynion either didn't get it or didn't care.

Poor Fastred, he seemed a bit flustered as he looked between us. I looked harder at Erynion, like this could possibly have any effect on an elf. I don't know whether he got bored or knew the amusement was coming to an end, but he finally answered me. "Do you want to ride the horse?"

"Yes," I said immediately, because walking was tiring and I just wanted this conversation to be done with.

Then of course Erynion started taking the bridal and reins off and I was no more able to stop him than the baffled looks of the riders around us.

_Elves_, I thought vindictively.

* * *

"Is there something amiss, that an elf from the yellow wood would come to the realm of Men?" The captain was a ruggedly good-looking guy with dirty blond hair and a couple days' growth of beard. He was quite polite, if as puzzled as Fastred and the lot had been when they saw Erynion and I riding towards his bigger group of men. We stuck out like an apple in a barrel of oranges.

"I am assisting Miss Maddie to Gondor."

Now I was the focus of the full brunt of the captain's attention. "My lady, it must be great circumstances indeed that would give cause to an elf to be your guard."

Once again, I was totally and utterly lost—but I'd learned my lesson. After a day with Fastred's group I'd realized quickly not to rely on Erynion in a conversation. He was as likely to simplify things or reply for me as he was to hug me.

"Yes." This was becoming my default answer for everything.

"Is there cause for concern for Rohan?" The captain's face started to frown. I had a feeling he was asking me if I'd ever been to Rohan or something along those lines.

"No," I frowned too, but mostly because Erynion now had three horses around him that were all whickering. Elves and their literal animal magnetism.

"Hm…" The captain said, but otherwise stopped talking about whatever he'd been talking about. One day I might actually know what people were saying to me. Sometimes it looked like a pipe dream.

* * *

"Edoras or Minas Tirith?" Erynion asked me, after a long, circular conversation the morning after we'd met Éomer that totally bypassed me, but was also totally about me. Éomer and Fastred had done their best, but truly my vocabulary wasn't up to task. The captain seemed to take pity on me once he'd realized the exact nature of my relationship with Erynion last night—that is to say, reluctantly reliant but also increasingly frustrated. Unfortunately, Éomer also wasn't very good at curbing his language, and Fastred was only a step up, so usually I was left with more questions than answers when they tried to "translate" for me.

So finally Erynion had intervened with an easy question. Well, mostly easy. "What is Minas Tirith?" I asked.

"City of Gondor." Erynion never bothered with verbs unless absolutely necessary.

"Gondor," I answered.

Fastred sighed, but Éomer looked mostly relieved this was done with. Why, if the question had been so simple, did no one just put it that way? "Why so hard?" I found myself asking the general air.

"It's complicated." Erynion replied, much to my surprise. And then annoyance, because now I felt like maybe there was something important in that conversation that I didn't know and Erynion had just precluded me from finding out.

But once again I didn't know how to say any of that, so Éomer and Erynion spoke shortly, and then Erynion mounted up on the horse we'd been lent before. Erynion apparently didn't need any tack at all, which simplified the question of where I would sit—Rohirrim saddles had a chair-like back that made two riders difficult to accommodate—but also spectacularly unsteady for me. Erynion's Elven balance and the fact that he would easily sit astride was the source of my greatest envy.

Éomer gave me a boost up, and only then did I realize we were leaving the Rohirrim immediately.

"Leave now?" I said surprised, but Erynion already started the horse to a walk, so there wasn't much I could do. "Bye Captain Éomer and Fastred!" I said, and I swear I heard Erynion huff something under his breath.

* * *

"This is Erynion. He speaks Westron. But he no like speaking." There was a pause as the man looked taken aback by my introduction. I was getting very tired of this response. Everyone seemed to be under the impression I was a translator for Erynion, and the dumb elf didn't even tell me that until we'd been in Minas Tirith for half a day and I'd brokenly introduced us to at least five people.

"And you are?" The man asking us was well dressed in a leather jerkin with a silver tree etched on it. He had shoulder-length light brown hair and a friendly smile, which was more welcoming than half the other people I'd met here so far. He was looking quite placidly at us, but I got the feeling he was humming with energy under his skin. Erynion and his "Elvish-ness" tended to do that to people.

"I am Maddie. I…" Normally I would say something like "I'm from the north", but through a series of progressively higher ranking people and physically moving up and up Minas Tirith over the course of the day, we were now talking to possibly one of the highest ranked person in the city. In a throne room no less, though I don't think he was the king otherwise he'd have a crown or something, right? At any rate, I was tired from walking up steps and fielding questions I barely understood about Erynion. If I had any hopes of sleeping peacefully tonight and eventually getting home, it was probably better to be straight with the influential people.

I started to sweat when I couldn't come up with anything not in English, so I went to my fallback. "Uh… I speak little Westron."

"Do you then speak Elvish?"

"No, no! I… I speak English."

This seemed to interest the man for only a moment, when I got grilled on where people spoke English and asked to do an example only to prove that the man hadn't heard it before. He seemed mildly fascinated by that conundrum, but perhaps ironically the elf was still holding his attention more. At least Erynion seemed to finally realize we weren't getting anyway and spoke up, saying something about Lord Elrond and Lothlórien, and apparently setting to rest whatever further questions the man had.

"Then let Minas Tirith welcome you," he said, with a slight bow. "Guest rooms will be prepared. I would like to extend an invitation to dinner tonight with my brother, Lord Boromir, and myself. It has been many years since one of the Eldar came to this city. It is our greatest honor to host you, Lord Erynion."

I only caught something about food and lords—my word of the day thanks to all these lords we'd been talking to—but considering the kind of attention Erynion was getting from this guy, not to mention pretty much everyone else in the city, I had a good feeling everyone just wanted to talk to him. How terribly disappointed they were all going to be.

Erynion bowed, and following him half a second later I curtsied. "Thank you, Lord Boromir."

"My brother is Lord Boromir. I am Faramir."

"Oh, um, oops. Lord Faramir." I repeated the curtsey to cover my bases, but he mostly looked amused.

"Oops?" he asked.

* * *

"Erynion doesn't like talking," I futilely said for what had to be the hundredth time. Lords and nobles and bards and soldiers had invited us to dinners and parties in the last two weeks—more dinners than there were meals in fourteen days if we're honest. All of them wanted to hear Elvish stories or songs, or maybe see him shoot an arrow or fall in love with their daughters or something. I really had no idea. Most people quickly overlooked me for Erynion, and I was almost surprised to see that I even got invited to anything at all. It seemed the only reason I did was to explain why Erynion was basically like a mobile statue.

Still, there was one person who didn't much care for Erynion's person, and he happened to frequent the guard's practice area not far from my quarters, so I saw him fairly often.

"Yes, I got that," Boromir muttered under his breath. He wasn't funny, nor overly kind and generous, which was actually a bit of a break from all the dumb nobles. They often showed up with gifts or tried to crack jokes that I didn't get, and sometimes had very strange assertions of what an Elf might like that I'm sure were at least a little insulting—the stuffed deer head to "bring some of nature" to Erynion's rooms jumped to mind.

Boromir was nothing like that, despite having a bloodline far older than those aristocrats. He was Faramir's brother, a soldier and hard working man who looking down on the well-dressed fops as much as Erynion did (or as much as I guessed Erynion did, based on the minute shifting of his facial muscles). He also didn't mind talking to me or at least trying to help me get by in this medieval world.

"Erynion doesn't like talking and singing. I never hear Erynion sing. Maybe he sings bad."

"Sings poorly," Boromir automatically corrected. Unlike everyone else, who was too polite to ever tell me my grammar was horrible, Boromir and sometimes Faramir would correct me. Faramir would try to (unsuccessfully) explain at least some of the principles for why I was speaking incorrectly, while Boromir would just interrupt me. He was a bit more abrupt like that.

"Maybe he sings poorly."

"Faramir would like to hear an Elf sing, though I prefer our bards."

"Maybe on Faramir's birthday I ask Erynion to sing."

"Will ask."

"I _will ask _Erynion to sing."

This was a typical conversation between Boromir and I. We'd run into each other somewhere, usually on the street or in a garden or something, I'd mention something I didn't understand that someone had done (usually a nobleman, but sometimes Erynion), and Boromir would attempt to explain. He was, under all the gruffness, a really good man, and I looked forward to those brief chats with him more than anyone else.

Ironically, Erynion didn't much care for Boromir. Faramir held his interest the most because he was more scholarly, though I think Erynion did respect Boromir's ability with the sword. The only person Erynion had ever done archery with was Boromir, come to think of it.

* * *

"Lady Maddie!" Faramir caught up to me in one of the gardens where I was thinking of introducing the concept of a plaque to, because nobody labeled the statues. How are any visitors supposed to know the significance of some lady holding a bowl if there's no inscription? "I have just gotten word that Gandalf has entered the city. He is the Grey Wizard as I told you before."

"Really?!" (This was the third most important word I'd learned, right behind yes and no, and right before Erynion's favorite: "complicated".)

"Yes. My father wishes to greet him, but perhaps he will come to dinner if he is not too tired. If so expect an invitation."

"Thank you! I am happy to meet the Grey Wizard."

Then Faramir walked away with a bow, and I patted myself on the back for understanding almost all of that. Then I went hunting for Erynion, who I had several weeks earlier confided in my personal story. Even though I liked Faramir and Boromir very much, and shared some of it with the brothers even, Erynion was—if nothing else—good at listening. He also never got that look on his face like Faramir did that made me wonder if he wasn't questioning my sanity. Erynion at least pretty much looked the same 24/7, so I could have told him I was really a mermaid flopped up from the sea and he wouldn't bat an eye. You can't know how reassuring that kind of acceptance can be, even I'm fairly sure he was just humoring me and secretly thinking I'm the kind of crazy that should be locked away.

"Erynion!" I said, popping my head inside the doorway to his room. He kept that place scrupulously clean, and I imagined he spent all night making the bed and dusting the dresser instead of sleeping or something. Either that or fairies were real and Elves could summon them and were keeping the secret from everyone else.

I checked a couple more of his usual haunts, including the wild flower garden (it was actually carefully maintained to look like it was growing wildly, a concept that was apparently not modern at all), the archery range, the library, and the courtyard overlooking the city. It was at the last one where I found the blond elf staring into space.

"I found you," I said, catching my breath since I'd had to climb six staircases to get up here. It was technically on the sixth level, since there were no guard posts blocking the way, but this particular courtyard was almost at the same height as the seventh level, so it was no easy feat up that narrow staircase.

Erynion didn't respond, just shifted his focus to me from hair maintenance or the pattern of tree roots or whatever Elves thought about.

"Faramir says Gandalf is in Minas Tirith."

Silence.

"If Gandalf is not sleepy then we will have dinner together."

A slight nod.

"This is good," I said stubbornly, sitting on the adjacent bench to him. "I will ask Gandalf to help me go home. He is a wizard." I even mimicked the pointy hat over my head, because concepts like "wizard" were difficult to explain when no one knew the translation. It hadn't been until Boromir grabbed his sword's sheath and mimicked a staff and pointy hat that I'd even understood.

He stirred. "There will be pumpkin at dinner tonight."

I sighed. Trust Erynion to say something random.

"Is that because the pumpkin fairies are out, or you can smell them from the second level, or because that lady who always has way too much powder on her face sent you one?" I asked rhetorically in English. This, I had found, was the single most annoying thing to Erynion I could possibly do and almost always guaranteed some kind of response. (Short of attempting archery that is, but he took my pathetic archery skills far more personally, so I kept that as an extreme measure.)

I earned a slight frown for that.

"You do know she's got an unhealthy interest in you right? It's one thing to ogle because the whole Elf thing—" hah, he hated it just a little bit more when I threw in Westron words knowing he couldn't understand anything else—"but really, she's forward even by my standards. I swear, without your sneaky Elven abilities you would have been groped at that last party, that's how much she tried to get near you."

I was feeling quite proud of myself for all of two seconds before Erynion looked up at the sky for the barest moment before Elvish just came tumbling out of him. It had to be easily the longest thing I'd ever heard him say and not a lick of it understandable. I also had the nagging suspicion that while pretty—because all Elvish sounded pretty when you only hear it—he was probably bemoaning his choice to follow me as much as I lamented the existence of that court lady.

Then he looked at me and there was definitely smugness in his eyes.

"In English there is a… words. In Westron it is… I eat my medicine."

"That's a good saying. You should listen to it more."

"Maybe when you tell me good news I will say nothing then. Eat your medicine, Erynion." He inclined his head a bit to acknowledge my victory. Feeling my ego swell, I threw in, "In English now you say 'touché'. Well… that's French really. Not English."

Erynion's eyebrow perked for just a moment. At the very least, as I walked back downstairs so Faramir's messenger would be able to find me, he wasn't looking so vacant as he had when I found him up here. I don't think Minas Tirith suited an elf very much. My experience in Rivendell had taught me that Elves liked trees and grass and water, not stone and cities. He was probably lonely without other Elves to talk to, I thought a bit sadly. It was like transplanting a wild animal into a zoo, except this one knows the what's on the other side of the walls.

* * *

The Grey Wizard was exactly what a wizard should look like. He had the pointy hat, the beard, the robes, and that twinkle in his eye that only real wizards should have. The nice ones, that is.

I liked him, but strangely it heartened me more to see how much Erynion liked him. Gandalf had greeted the elf in Elvish, and they had what most would consider a short conversation in the tongue, but for Erynion was probably the longest one he'd had since leaving Lothlórien. I hadn't realized he'd looked less… fey until he brightened from that short chat.

After that first meeting though things with Gandalf didn't pan out quite so smoothly. For one, he didn't know anything about my situation, and even with heavyweight backing from the sons of the Steward and Erynion, Gandalf couldn't really figure out what the heck I was here for.

With Erynion helping to translate—well, not really, Erynion was mostly just there like usual—I got to explain to the wizard the details of my travel, including my unhelpful talk with Elrond. Erynion, surprisingly, jumped in very briefly for a moment to tell Gandalf that the Lady of the Golden Wood had _specifically said_ she wouldn't meet with me. That made the Grey Wizard _hmmmm_ in a decidedly ominous way.

I shot Erynion my most unimpressed look because this was the first I was hearing of this.

He completely ignored it.

And then of course Gandalf had to mention Frodo Baggins and the whole world came down around my ears.

* * *

An Elf wasn't really the best thing to see once the panic attack about fictional books and fantasy characters has just barely finished. I'd sort of managed to overlook or become so used to him that I didn't really see it anymore, but Erynion had small but definitely pointy ears, an angular face that looked more like it had been sculpted in shimmering clay than by genetics, and the kind of eyes that at the moment made me want to claw my own out.

"Let her be, let her be," I could hear Gandalf in the background saying, but I guess Erynion didn't let up his grip. It was a good thing too because it was grounding me, though at the moment if I could have flown away back to my sleepy hometown I'd have done it in a heartbeat.

When I was sufficiently recovered—and most importantly not so congested after the spontaneous tears—Gandalf wanted the full story and Erynion went back to being a statue in the corner. But I didn't forget his hovering and his help up from the corner of the room I'd scrambled into. They really weren't kidding about the strength of the Elves, because he hauled me up like I was a toddler fallen on the playground and not a full-grown adult having a mental breakdown.

It was pretty broken, but I conveyed the gist of it, and Gandalf looked exceptionally thoughtful. This is generally not a good thing on wizard's face, because it means your life and happiness are probably in the balance. I'm sure the whole Baggins line of hobbits break out into a cold sweat at the sight.

"If the council is indeed to occur in Rivendell, then it would be best you be there," Gandalf surmised, and I groaned aloud because I'd just left there.

"Why did I leave if I only have to go back?" I mumbled in English, ignored by Erynion and Gandalf who were discussing something in much faster Westron. I heard things like horses, days, Elrond, and a smattering of other words, but most of it didn't make any sense.

"Stay. Prepare. Erynion will guide you back to Rivendell."

I looked at Erynion to see how he felt being described as essentially my pack mule, but he'd adopted that Elven look of indifference that meant I wasn't going to wheedle anything out of him.

"Now you will leave Minas Tirith. Happy?" I said to him.

His glance flicked to me, then back into space. I sighed.

* * *

"I want my horse."

"You do not have a horse."

"No, a new horse for me. Your horse is… not a good person."

"…"

"And chair for horse."

"Chair?"

"Sit on chair. Horse chair."

"Saddle."

"What?"

This was not a good start to our return trip.

* * *

tbc…


End file.
